


Relinquished / Withheld

by kromi



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Dreams, M/M, five + 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-14
Updated: 2011-07-14
Packaged: 2017-10-21 09:05:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kromi/pseuds/kromi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Erik met Charles in dreams, and one time when everything was real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relinquished / Withheld

 

 _Prologue_

He never takes off the helmet, ever. He isn't completely certain if he insists on keeping it on because he doesn't want Charles to reach out for him, or because he doesn't want to know that Charles _isn't_ reaching out for him. He doesn't know the exact range of Charles' abilities, but he isn't willing to find out and risk it, not again. He could ask Emma to teach him some tricks to help him resist, but he doesn't want Emma peering into his head either. The helmet stays. It is the only thing that is foolproof.

He knows there will be another Cerebro sooner or later. Hank will build it, even without help from the government.

Sometimes he wonders if there is anything Charles wants to tell him.

Sometimes he wonders if there even is anything Charles can say to him, and if there is anything he can say back.

Sometimes he wakes up to a whisper in the night and gets up, frantic with hope and dread, only to find the helmet still on his head, still safe; still hidden and out of reach and blissfully lonely. He sets back to sleep, glad that he still doesn't have to know.

 

He took the helmet off once, not long after he got it. It was a mistake, of course: they were too close to the mansion, he was too curious, too lonely; too everything, with Charles plaguing his thoughts. He will never forget it.

Of course Charles was there and it didn't take even a beat before his consciousness was filling Erik's: so huge and strong and injecting a storm of emotions straight into his brain, screaming and screaming and screaming and soon Erik felt like there was hardly anything left of him anymore. It was all just Charles, all the disappointment and anger and hurt and _HOW COULD YOU, SO STUPID, WHY COULDN'T YOU SEE_ and so many of the emotions paralleled Erik's; stupid emotions he tried so hard to forget. Charles pushed it all at him and while powerful, the connection felt sloppy and not at all like Charles, who was always all about finesse and surgeon-like precision. He probably didn't even realize how mad he really was in his desperate intent to just get the message across.

Erik felt ever so sorry that he had taken the helmet off, doubling over on the floor with his hands over his ears, what little remained of his consciousness slowly going black from the overwhelming psychic bombardment.

And he couldn't even say that he was sorry, because really, he wasn't sorry at all.

Not the way Charles wanted him to be.

He was sorry for that bullet (he didn't think he had ever been so sorry about anything before), that was the extent of his remorse, but it turned out to be the one thing Charles didn't really give a fuck about (Charles' words, not Erik's).

Then silence.

He just lied on the floor, trembling, hands on his ears and eyes closed, and with Charles so very quiet inside his head. He could feel him just… being there, lurking at the threshold. He wasn't even prodding around: not going after memories well-hidden and long-forgotten, or making him relive something he would rather have forgotten. Charles could have made him suffer: he if anyone knew how to make people hurt. Physical pain was nothing compared to horrors the mind could project.

But it was never about vengeance with Charles, of course, he knew that. The silence, either way, was disconcerting.

It was worse than the screaming.

"I'm sorry I ever trusted you," was the last thing Charles said before he was gone.

 

And Erik remembers Charles holding a pistol against his head, his mouth a serious, thin line, brow furrowed in concentration and conflict and his hand trembles ever so slightly, finger twitching on the trigger. Erik remembers the cool metal of the muzzle against his forehead and the faint smell of metal and gunpowder and he is grinning, laughing; taunting Charles to do it, pull the trigger, he can deflect it, it's child's play, just do it; and Charles lets out the breath he has been holding in a big frustrated sigh and lowers the weapon, his shoulders sagging in resignation. He says that he cannot shoot a friend.

He remembers Charles closing his eyes, pressing two fingers against his temple; concentrating, but looking so serene and calm, and gently bringing forth memories Erik thought he had lost forever somewhere beneath years of agony, madness and fury. What a gift, he remembers thinking, staring at Charles through unshed tears, all bewildered and with his heart and mind and soul splayed open for Charles to see: everything he remembers and everything he has forgotten; everything he _is_ and for a moment he is scared of what Charles can find. But Charles doesn't look: he opens his eyes and closes the book without so much as leafing through it and Erik's heart swells.

Later on he opens most of that for him willingly, yet Charles still doesn't look. Erik doesn't know if Charles just doesn't care, or maybe he's just that polite, or maybe he's afraid of what he might see, reminded of fighting with monsters and gazing into abysses. Maybe he knows already: "I know everything about you," he once said, but Erik doesn't know if it was a bluff.

He remembers pulling Charles into his arms in a cordial embrace, trying to deny just how much he actually wants to kiss him, and—it was such a dirty trick, really—Charles says, "why don't you?"

So he does.

It is mind-blowing: when their lips meet and Charles' hands tangle in his hair, he can feel Charles _everywhere_ : Charles' feelings are laid bare as he opens his mind to Erik, and it is so raw and pure and heart-wrenchingly honest that Erik can't even continue. He staggers back, closes his eyes and touches his forehead, like the touch could banish the images from his head and Charles is everything. _I've wanted this so much, Erik, can you feel it, I love you_ echoes like a purifying mantra in the dark caverns of his mind.

And Charles laughs, a bit embarrassed. "Too much?" he says and Erik just kisses him again.

 

Moira fires her weapon, bang bang bang and he deflects the bullets, hears Charles let out a small sound like right out of nightmares and turns around to find his heart shattered into pieces.

 

He finally tried to get up, still shaking and so, so drained and exhausted and he didn't feel a thing, and Raven barged into the room (beautiful, _beautiful_ Raven), worry all over her face when she saw the helmet on the floor. She flashed him a fleeting look of something akin to pity (ugly look, didn't suit her) before she took the helmet and then helped him stand up.

Why did Charles ever even trust him, was he really so stupid, so blind? Did he never really take a good hard look at what was inside his head? How much he hated, how much vengeance drove him; how he was an unrepentant murderer? He never did much to hide it, there was no reason to. The whole thing was Charles' fault: he should have never trusted someone like Erik, he could only blame himself.

How deep did he look?

What did he see?

 _What did you see, Charles?_

Only _s_ ilence replied.

She slid the helmet carefully back on his head, and he could start pretending again that Charles was still out there; that the silence was just because of the helmet.

"We need to go," she said. "They know we're here."

He just nodded and let her help him.

One hand in Raven's and the other in Azazel's he was spirited away: an escape routine that had become much too familiar to him already.

 

One night in a fit of nostalgia and loneliness very unbecoming of him he takes the helmet off and nothing happens. He turns the helmet in his hands, traces the contours near the edges, leaves fingerprints all over the red, polished surface, and all he hears is faint ringing in his ears.

There is no Charles.

No screaming.

No guessing.

Nothing.

 

 _First_

Erik steps into Charles' study in the Westchester mansion. Charles stands in front of a window, his back to Erik and the midday sunlight pouring in from the windows forms a golden halo around him. The light is bright, the shadows rich and deep and everything looks like it's a sepia photograph, the colors diluted and faded. Everything that is barely outside Erik's field of vision is blurred, as if everything he doesn't look straight at melds into the shadows and stops existing. Charles however is focused and sharp and stands out, no matter where Erik looks.

Charles turns to him and flashes him a friendly smile that is a bit uncertain at the edges. His eyes are brilliant blue, saturated unlike everything around him. "Erik. I'm glad you made it!" He steps closer and holds out his hand for a greeting.

Erik ignores the outstretched hand. "This is a dream, right?" he makes sure.

Charles nods. "Yes."

Erik narrows his eyes. "It's unusually precise. My dreams tend to be a bit less… obvious."

"Fine, you got me," Charles says with a fake sigh. "I'm cheating a bit."

Erik raises an eyebrow and Charles hurries to explain: "Astral projecting," he says, like it's the simplest, the most obvious thing in the world. To him it probably is. "You are asleep, yes; I, not so much. The mind is completely unguarded when we sleep, makes it ripe for all sorts of outside influence."

"So are you going to break me while I'm asleep? Charming, Charles."

"Break you?" he laughs. "Why would I want to do that?"

"Aren't we enemies now? Aren't we supposed to be at each other's throats?"

Charles snorts."I can try to strangle you if you're so into that sort of thing," he says and Erik isn't quite sure if he's serious, joking, or straight-out flirting with him.

"Also it definitely sort of seemed like you wanted to hurt me the last time we, um, spoke."

"Oh," Charles says. "Yes. That." He loses his composure for a moment and fidgets a bit, looking… embarrassed, maybe? Erik can't quite tell, and for a second Charles fades like everything at the edge of his field of vision and Erik can't quite focus on him. The blue drains from his eyes. But soon enough he's back to what is apparently normal in this dream: sharp and brilliant like a beacon. "To tell you the truth, Erik, I was madder at myself than at you. I failed you."

"Failed me? What on earth are you talking about?"

"I thought I had you all figured out, but." Charles looks very unsure and keeps glancing away, like there's something outside the room, right behind the walls, somewhere Erik can't see. He turns back to the window, staring through the sunlight into the garden that doesn't exist in this dream. "I was wrong. You know what? This was a bad idea. I'm sorry," he says then.

Erik stares. "You don't say," he mocks. "Why are you projecting yourself into my dream if you don't actually want to talk?"

"I do want to talk, it's exactly why I did this," Charles says, clasping his hands together behind his back. Erik finds it irritating how he can't see his face. Something bangs outside the room, against the walls, like it wants to get in, whatever it is. "But I'm not sure if this is the right way to do it. You are more vulnerable like this."

"You want us to stand on even ground?"

"Indeed," Charles says. "This is very unfair to both of us."

"I can't imagine how this could be unfair to you. As I understand it, you hold perfect dominion over my mind right now," Erik says.

"It is still _your_ dream," Charles says and finally turns back to Erik. He doesn't bother to explain further, but Erik can guess. The walls are silent again.

"This is a very lousy dream. The ones I have of you tend to be quite different," Erik says.

"How so?"

"There isn't quite so much talking."

Charles manages to keep on his poker face. "Oh."

Erik is still not entirely sure if the Charles in front of him really is some "astral projection" of Charles, or just a (rather disturbing and annoyingly accurate) figment of his imagination: a result of a very weird lucid dream. He closes the distance between them and grabs Charles by the wrists. Charles flinches, but doesn't step away. He meets Erik's eyes and looks serene, the blue of his eyes blinding in the wan browns and grays of their surroundings. He feels Charles' even pulse against his thumb and the rough fabric of Charles' jacket against his fingers and he's warm and _real_ and Erik's pulse quickens, because it _is_ Charles, not just some dream.

But his eyes are entirely too blue and he steps away slowly, pulling his hands free from Erik's grip and his fingertips trail and curl against Erik's fingers for a moment too long for it not to mean anything.

"I'm afraid this is not that kind of a dream, Erik," Charles says, but he's wearing a smirk. "I think it's time for you to wake up."

Charles and the sunlight-bathed sepia study waver and wane and Erik opens his eyes and finds himself sleeping hunched over his desk, pencil in hand and blueprints under his cheek, and the moonlight from the warehouse windows makes everything gray.

 

 _Second_

He's playing chess with Charles in the room with the fireplace: the same room in the Westchester mansion that they always played in. The cozy fire crackles and licks at the wood, casting its dancing light over the dim-lit room. It is night and the world beyond the windows disappears into perfect blackness.

Charles is looking relaxed in his chair, holding a half-empty glass of brandy in one hand and leaning his head to the other, watching the chessboard and wearing an expression that is part contentment, part self-assuredness. It is Erik's turn and he is losing within five moves.

"I distinctly remember you saying this was a bad idea," Erik says slowly and leans back in his own chair, ignoring the game. He cannot remember anything of it, which is an indication enough. Charles lifts his gaze from the board to meet Erik's eyes.

"Oh?" Charles says and a grin tugs at the corners of his mouth. "Are you sure you didn't just dream it up?"

"Funny," Erik says, deadpan. "What are you doing here, Charles?"

Charles gestures towards the chessboard. "I am enjoying a game of chess with you, my friend."

Erik narrows his eyes and examines Charles. He stands out in the room again, while everything else is blurred and fades into nothingness at the edge of Erik's awareness, and his eyes are blue in a way that is wholly unnatural. His smile is the kind Erik remembers well: the sort of playful and warm half a smile that always lit up his features after a glass or two of brandy.

"You're drunk," Erik draws a conclusion.

"A bit, maybe, yes," Charles admits and twirls the glass in his fingers.

"In that case I am inclined to agree with your previous assessment: yes, this is a rather horrible idea. You should go," Erik says. There is something about Charles' clouded eyes that makes it very difficult to maintain eye contact with him; something that reminds Erik much too painfully of times past.

Charles pulls a face.

"Or do you suddenly want to have the conversation you previously thought was so unfair to both of us?"

Erik notices that the pieces on the chessboard have moved while he wasn't looking. The black king is tipped to its side, Charles' white pieces looming victorious over the battlefield.

" _I_ distinctly remember you saying that your dreams of me tend to have a lot less talking," Charles says then, and it really feels like a dream the way he moves, skips over parts of the room and without taking even a step ends up standing right before Erik, between the chair and the chessboard. "And here you are: all words."

"This is not that kind of a dream," Erik says, a bit bewildered.

"It is yours," Charles says simply. "It can be."

Erik closes his eyes, because this has _got_ to be a dream, and he feels as Charles sits down on his thighs, slips his hands gently behind his neck and kisses him softly, thumbs caressing his jawline, and how do you dream with your eyes closed like that?

He returns and deepens the kiss because he knows now that this has got to be a dream, _nothing_ but a dream of his own making, and this Charles cannot be the real Charles: it is just a memory, a very good fallacy, the way Charles threads his fingers in his hair, and kisses just the way Erik remembers it; the way his tongue presses against his, the way he tastes and smells; the small content sounds he makes whenever he shifts or exhales or _anything_.

And Charles opens his mind to him, like he always did, and the raw, desperate longing hits him like a tidal wave; the _I miss you so much it is driving me mad, please Erik, let me have this_ , and the kiss is desperate and hungry and Erik returns it because if the dream is all he is going to get, he won't stop to second guess it. It breaks his heart but it is not the first time, and this dream is good; better than most. He wraps his arms around Charles and pulls him so close there's nothing between them and Charles lets out a breathy sigh against his mouth.

 _Is this really a dream?_

 _For you it is_ , Charles replies, and then asks Erik to wait but it's too late: Erik stands up and pushes Charles away, absolutely furious. Charles trips over the chessboard, the surprise and hurt and regret briefly touching Erik's mind, _no, Erik, wait, I'm sorry I didn't mean—_ before Erik just shuts him forcefully out of his head as well. He never sees Charles fall all the way as the enraged flames from the fireplace engulf the room and he tears himself out of the dream—or is it a nightmare now?

He wakes with a jolt in the darkness of his own bedroom, still sensing Charles' weight on his lap, the pressure of Charles' lips on his own and the faint taste of brandy in his mouth.

 

 _Third_

It is late afternoon and he is walking down the path that runs along the wisteria-covered garden-side wall of the Westchester mansion. It is mid fall, with most of the garden's flowers wilting and the cool wind biting into his face although it is still sunny. Gravel crunches under his feet as he makes his way to—where indeed? He slows down and stops. The wisterias at his side rustle softly in the breeze.

The warm yellows, reds and browns of fall translate poorly into a dream with a palette restricted to pale shades. Even the sky, blue as it should be, fades into an unsaturated hue. Yet one certain shade of cerulean seems to be the only exception to the rule, which is why Charles' eyes are as blue as ever as he appears at Erik's side, seemingly out of nowhere.

Erik sighs. "Should I just wake myself up right now to save us both the trouble?"

Charles' smile is careful, contemplative; conciliatory? He chooses his words carefully, confirming his embarrassment to be genuine. "If that's what you want, I'm afraid there's nothing I can, or am willing to do to stop you."

Erik sighs. "You are making a habit out of this."

"I admit I'm doing rather poorly at attempting to convey anything else."

"What is it that you try to convey, then?"

"My apologies," Charles says without missing a beat. "I am sorry for what happened the last time I—last time I projected myself into your dream, it was foolish and sentimental of me and I _was_ drunk and—"

"And you still think this is in any way 'fair' that you keep contacting me while I am asleep and you are awake? While this is all true to you and nothing but glorified make-believe to me and I cannot exactly trust that you are not influencing these dreams in any way at all?"

Charles bites his lip. "Apology is all I wanted to make."

"Well, you are forgiven. You are now free to go and leave me to dream of normal things, not of memories and days long past," Erik says haughtily and turns to leave. He doesn't know where, but the path will eventually lead somewhere, hopefully to a better dream, uninhabited by ghosts of the past. He takes two steps and the path disappears under his feet, the wisterias blown away by the breeze and faded into nothingness.

"These dreams are yours," Charles says behind his back. He's the only thing that still exists there, in the unknown void. "I have no part in creating the worlds the dream you inhabits. I wouldn't dare."

Erik turns and he's in Charles' bedroom, staring at Charles, all blue eyes, with hands leisurely in the pockets of his trousers and a smile playing at his lips. The sun is setting: the window-panes are alight with gold and the shadows are long and deep. Erik remembers those shadows and that light from the windows, remembers the way fresh bed sheets smelled like.

He remembers the way every contour of Charles' body seemed to compliment his.

Erik narrows his eyes. "You must be doing this", he says.

"Doing what, Erik?"

"Stop it," he snarls.

Charles isn't smiling anymore and his brow is furrowed in a way that resembles pity so much that Erik suddenly wants to just hit him until he stops making that face. Charles closes the distance between them and sets his hands gently on both sides of Erik's face. Erik doesn't even try to get away.

"Erik," he says. "Do you ever dream of anything else?"

Charles closes his eyes and connects with Erik's mind and dredges up memories that are not really memories. Every dream Charles shows him Erik remembers seeing: the déjà vu feels like vertigo as the dreams spiral out and he remembers forgetting each and every one of them after waking.

"Why do you still sleep without the helmet, Erik?" Charles asks gently. There is nothing accusatory about his tone, but Erik takes it as an accusation anyway and tears sting at his eyes—tears that are much too real—and he's about to admit things that Charles probably already knows and definitely doesn't need to hear, so he quickly ejects himself from the dream.

He wakes up breathless and blinks tears out of his eyes, and all the floating metal in the room hits the ground in a series of deafening crashes that echo throughout the silent room.

 

 _Fourth_

He dreams of the Westchester mansion again and thinks instantly that it must be one of _those_ dreams, but once Charles doesn't appear to him even when he calls, he starts the search. He searches one room after another, all of them empty; the mansion deserted. The television is on, but shows nothing but soundless white noise, and the only sound in the entire mansion is the radio in the kitchen playing La Vie en Rose like it's just slightly off the right frequency: scratchy and distorted.

He tries to go outside but cannot open the front door, and the windows don't have latches. Every clock shows a different time, the hands frozen. He finds out he cannot use his powers as he attempts to open the front door by tearing the hinges out, and the metal doesn't budge no matter how hard he pulls and twists.

There is no Charles, no kids, nothing. He is all alone and depowered in his dream of the mansion, and it is starting to disconcert him. He hears several loud bangs like gunshots from the upper floors, the sounds reverberating through the silent mansion. He doesn't realize what such noises could possibly entail: doesn't realize to feel fear because he knows it's just a dream (or at least it must be). He goes upstairs, finds out someone's lit the fireplace and set up the chessboard, and that someone is sitting in the chair Charles always sat in.

A wave of relief washes over Erik.

"Never thought I'd actually be happy to see you here," he says and walks towards the chair. The pale flames in the fireplace are the only source of light in the room, casting dancing shadows on the walls.

"It's not me," says a voice behind him and Erik turns around to find Charles there, bright blue eyes and all.

Another Charles smiles up at him from the chair and gestures at him to take a seat.

"It sure looks like you," Erik says and turns to Charles at the door for a second, and when he looks back at the Charles in the chair, he finds him dead, blood pooling in his lap and soaking into the chair, glassy colorless eyes staring at the chessboard. The white king is tipped to its side, the black pieces in disarray. He feels hands on his shoulders and Erik tears his eyes away from the blood-stilling nightmare sight.

"It is not me," Charles repeats, like he's talking to a child.

Erik lets out a shaky breath, tries not to look at the corpse in the chair. "I really don't need you to guide me through my nightmares."

"I know."

"I'd rather you left," Erik says.

"No," Charles replies. "You want to talk to me."

"You are _dead_ ," Erik says and gestures towards the chair. The blood is starting to soak into the plush carpet. The shadows in the room are the color of dried blood and they are slowly starting to move, forming eldritch shapes on the walls and the furniture, and creeping ever so closer.

The dead Charles in the chair suddenly has Shaw's face. He blinks once and turns to Erik, his mouth moves but no sound comes out and he stands up, bloodied and smiling and he holds out his hand and the coin lies on his palm. Erik tries to run but cannot move, and Charles is torn away from him by the shadows: they swallow him whole, but not before Erik catches the fleeting look of surprise and subsequent horror on his face. Charles is gone but Shaw remains, smiling and offering the coin, blood pouring out of the hole in his forehead.

"Erik, this is _your dream,_ " he hears Charles' disembodied voice, surprisingly urgent. "You can unmake it if you want to. You _need_ to unmake it, I am… Erik, this is not _safe._ "

It's what he has been saying all along, Erik realizes, and he closes his eyes, trying to calm his mind. When he opens his eyes again, Shaw and the shadows are gone and Charles sits in the chair, very much alive, and Erik is sitting opposite from him. The room is warm and well-lit, and doesn't feel like a nightmare anymore.

Erik relaxes significantly and watches as Charles sets up the game. "Are you hurt?" he asks, remembering the genuine urgency in Charles' plea.

"No," Charles says, not looking at Erik. He busies himself with the chess pieces, careful to place every piece squarely on their rightful place. "I once told you this is not fair to either of us. I am untrained at this and it is easy for me to get lost in your dreams, and you can attack me without even being aware of it. Your subconscious can reject me, trap me here and inflict upon me the kind of horrors only our _id_ is capable of. Not very pretty," he explains, and places the last black pawn on the board.

"I'm sorry," Erik says.

Charles lifts his face and flashes a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "You're hardly responsible for your subconscious. I just chose a bad dream."

"Indeed. So, I wanted to talk?"

Charles nods. "Don't know what about, though, but you were broadcasting so loudly it was rather difficult to ignore." He opens the game with Queen's Gambit.

"Did you even try?"

"You know me," Charles smiles.

"I take it you have another Cerebro? You wouldn't be able to do this without it amplifying your powers."

Charles nods again. "Yes. Hank's done remarkable job with it, it's so much better than the original, it—"

"I don't doubt that," Erik hurries to interrupt before Charles can go on a tirade about his magnificent sphere of science. Sometimes he can be worse than Hank. Erik moves out his knight to play out an expected defense to Charles' opening. "So how long have you been watching my dreams?"

"Erik, my friend, I haven't watched your dreams," Charles says with a smile.

Erik remembers all the dreams Charles showed him before and cringes. "Don't lie to me."

"Just because I know, doesn't necessarily mean that I looked," Charles says and his smile morphs into a grin. "You may consider yourself an unsolvable riddle, but I know you well enough to read what's between the lines."

Erik frowns. "Are you saying that you _never_ looked?"

"No, of course I did," he says. "But I never looked after you wore the helmet, even when I could have."

"Ah, ever so polite."

The smile wanes from Charles' lips. "Erik, I never had a reason to do so. You wanted to keep me out of your head and I was more than happy to oblige. You don't even realize how deeply personal such connection feels to me. Locking minds with you now is like tearing my heart out of my chest, especially since there are things you cannot control; things that you cannot keep a lid on when you feel so strongly about them. It _hurts_. Why would I want to subject myself to such torture if denial and simple abstaining can keep me concentrated on things that matter so much more than mulling over a broken heart?"

"Charles…"

"Don't get me wrong," Charles says, his face an unfamiliar mask devoid of all emotion. "I love you, but it will not change the way things turned out. We both made our choices and I am about to stand by mine."

"I know that," Erik snaps. "Don’t take me for a fool."

Neither has touched their chess pieces since Charles' opening and Erik's defense, but an invisible hand has once again brought the game to an end, and Erik's black king lies on its side. Not that it wasn't expected: Charles used to win most of their games.

"You never answered my question," Erik reminds Charles.

"No, I didn't," Charles replies and takes a look at the chessboard, seemingly surprised at the game being finished.

"You are not going to answer, are you?"

"Why don't you use the helmet, Erik?" Charles counters.

"You wouldn't ask that if you knew what it's like to try sleeping with that thing on," Erik replies, and Charles laughs. "For someone who supposedly knows me so well, you sure like asking questions you know the answers to."

Before Charles can even think of replying with something along the lines of "I'd just like to hear you say it" (Erik likes to pretend that he knows Charles just as well as Charles claims to know him, and Erik doesn't need to be a telepath to know what he's about to say), Erik takes the dream by the reins, attempting to change it again. The room around them shifts and Erik catches the curious look on Charles' face before he closes his eyes and lets the new dream settle.

When he opens his eyes he's in Charles' bedroom, in Charles' bed, with Charles underneath him, his face only inches away and Charles' curious look is replaced with thinly-veiled surprise. The window-panes are alight with gold and Erik can smell the fresh bed sheets.

"The question is," Erik says, watches as Charles takes a look at his surroundings and probably remembers, "why do _you_ keep coming back?"

"Guess we both have rotten self-discipline," Charles says and meets Erik's eyes. Erik feels Charles' hands on the small of his back.

"Indeed," he says and leans down for a kiss, which Charles returns instantly.

His eventual orgasm tears the fabric of the dream apart.

 

 _Fifth_

The last dream they share is the worst. Erik doesn't know if it is Charles' presence that inspires these dreams, or if he's directly influencing them despite denying it every time Erik suggests that he is, or if Erik really does dream so much of Charles and events surrounding him. It is all a grand mindfuck, one that Charles would be perfectly capable of perpetrating if it weren't for the fact that the man was everything but grudging and spiteful.

He is standing on _the_ beach, white sand beneath his feet and the water so blue he cannot tell where the ocean ends and sky begins. The submarine is there, as well as their crashed Blackbird, smoke rising from the wreckage. Unlike every other dream, this one is in brilliant technicolor and for a moment Erik seriously questions reality. It is more like a memory than a dream and although the Westchester mansion was always just like Erik remembers it, all those dreams with Charles that took place in the mansion were more like random occurrences in the time and space of his dreamscape rather than specific memories.

He suspects Charles shenanigans immediately.

There is no one else on the beach, except for Charles who sits at waterfront, his shoes off and trousers rolled up to his knees. The gentle waves lap at his feet, his toes half-buried in the sand. He isn't wearing the silly yellow-and-black suit they all wore that day, but rather one of his casual outfits, and from that Erik knows that it must be the real Charles, not a part of his dream.

He walks to the waterfront and sits in the sand, next to Charles.

"This is a bad dream I chose," Charles admits, squinting his eyes in the sunlight.

"I won't stop you from leaving," Erik says, only half-serious. "Despite everything that's happened, I am still not completely at ease with you infesting my dreams."

"I know," Charles says and for the first time he sounds exasperated. "Rotten self-disciplines and all that jazz, _I know,_ Erik _._ This is the last one."

"Oh? Think you can keep yourself from peeking?"

"Think you can keep the helmet on?" Charles counters. "I came to ask you if it's completely ridiculous and impossible for us to meet outside dreams."

"I guess it depends on the nature of such a meeting."

Charles gazes at the warships in the horizon. "I have something to tell you and I cannot do it in dreams because you do not trust me enough."

"Is this the very same something that you contacted me about in the first place?

"As a matter of fact, yes, it is."

"Got a bit lost on the way, huh?"

"We both did," Charles says dismissively. His gaze sweeps over the deserted beach. "Do you know why you're alone here?"

Erik has a hunch. "I'm inside the submarine."

Charles nods and the dream shifts, the change jarring when Erik's conscious mind tries to process it. He stands in the heart of the submarine, the helmet is on his head and Shaw stands in front of him, frozen in place with the dawning terror plastered all over his face, just like Erik remembers it.

Charles stands by him, hands in his pockets, barefooted.

Erik doesn't want to play by the rules of this memory, doesn't want Charles to see what he's about to do (even though Charles _did_ , even played a part in it on top of having a front row seat, and Erik feels a pang of guilt), and then notices that something is amiss. The coin is not in his hand, and for a moment he wonders if he's subconsciously trying to stop himself from doing what needs to be done by losing the most important part of the dream, but then Charles pulls his hand out of his pocket and holds it out, palm up, and there's the coin. He presses the coin into Erik's hand, giving him the murder weapon.

The coin bores effortlessly into Shaw's skull and Charles just watches calmly and his face doesn't betray anything, which angers Erik because surely Charles must be angry and hurt, must remember _experiencing death_ , and yet he doesn't even flinch. His face is a blank slate, which has to mean that he is giving a lot to hide whatever it is that he feels.

The dream shifts again and they are outside on the beach. Everyone is there, but frozen; it's a snapshot of a moment. The only moving things are the missiles, and Erik steps in to stop them, like he should, because he is the only Erik in the dream.

One Charles is frozen, but the other, the barefooted one in the casual suit walks over to Erik.

"You keep blaming yourself for the stray bullet that hit me," Charles says. "I won't say that you shouldn't, but it was never the thing that made me resent you that day."

Erik strains to hold the missiles in place. "Why did you hold him? Were you hoping it would stop me?"

"He would have killed you," Charles says softly. "He would have killed all of us, and all those people on the ships. I had to do something, and I chose to save us, and them, and _you_ , but it was _your_ choice to kill him. And yes, I was hoping it would stop you."

"I'm sorry," Erik breathes.

"No, you're not."

"I am," Erik insists. "Not for killing him, but for hurting you."

"Well," Charles says and his smile is sad. "Nothing you can do about that."

"Indeed."

Erik forces the missiles around, points them at the warships looming in the horizon and when he finally lets them go, all according to the grim script, the dream springs back to life. Finally Moira fires her pistol and this time Erik doesn't lift a finger. He doesn't know what being hit with a bullet feels like, but his mind does a very good imitation of pain either way.

He falls to the sand and Charles in the casual suit hurries to gather him into his arms and prop him up against his leg.

"You know this won't change anything," Charles almost berates him.

"Of course, it's just a dream," Erik says.

Erik calls the missiles back and before they hit the beach, Charles whispers a time and a place to him, cradling him in his arms. He disappears after that, fading out like a ghost, and Erik wakes when he dies.

He sleeps with the helmet on until the date Charles whispered to him.

 

 _First, Again_

Erik thinks he's prepared to whatever comes in through the door (he's prepared to Charles not showing up and facing the fact that he is in fact crazy and Charles in his dreams was never real; he's even prepared to soldiers, whatever, even when he knows that Charles would never do that to him as he's much too good a man for such an insidious backstab), but finds all his careful preparations obsolete as Charles does not in fact step over the threshold. Instead he maneuvers his wheelchair over the small bump in the doorway with somewhat awkward, if still elegant movements, betraying that he is not completely used to it just yet despite not lacking confidence. He does not look at Erik until he's half-way across the room, and when he finally lifts his eyes (not as blue as Erik remembers), Erik doesn't see the challenge he was expecting there, just quiet contemplation as he examines Erik, level and serene. There's not even a trace of blame, and it angers Erik.

Other than the chair, Charles hasn't changed much. There are lines on his face that weren't there before, carved by worry and stress, but it is not surprising, all things considered.

"Hello, Erik," he says, and a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, a bit nervous.

"What is this?" Erik asks, disregarding the greeting. He cannot stop the disgust and anger—at himself because _no, you did this_ , or at Charles because he hid it from him, he doesn't know—from seeping into his voice, and if Charles doesn't challenge him, then he will.

Charles catches to his meaning immediately, as expected. "The bullet severed nerves. I cannot walk."

"But the dreams…"

"A dream is a dream. Those were your dreams, and I was more of your image of me than, well, _me_ ," he says simply. "You couldn't have known. It doesn't matter, either way, what's done cannot be undone."

Erik feels a pang of guilt, and that there are not enough apologies or regret in the world to show Charles how sorry he is. Thankfully anger overshadows everything else, and Erik knows Charles doesn't want apologies, except for things he's not sorry for, and even those wouldn't change anything. He seethes. "So now you're protecting me from my own mistakes, how absolutely charming. I definitely find it inconsequential, knowing that I put you in a wheelchair. You should have _told me_."

"Oh, Erik, I didn't know you cared," Charles returns the sarcasm with a smile.

Erik frowns. "Enough," he scoffs. "Can you finally tell me why you wanted us to meet?"

"Certainly," Charles says. "And even better, I can show you."

Just one look, and Erik understands what Charles is implying. He eyes him suspiciously. "Do you take me for a fool? I wear this helmet for a reason."

"I remember a time not so long ago you didn't," Charles says with a strained smile. "Did you ever have a reason not to trust me?"

Erik laughs, only partially from genuine amusement. "You abused that privilege as far as I'm concerned," he says. "My mistake, yes, I am aware, Charles."

"A mistake," Charles muses, feigning obliviousness. "Is that what they call it these days?"

"Funny."

"But back to the matter at hand: did you?"

"Not particularly," Erik admits, finds no reason to hide the truth even when Charles can't read it straight from his thoughts. "Despite your warped view of what's appropriate and what's not, no, I guess I never had any reason to doubt your sincerity on the matter."

"Then allow me," Charles says and holds out his arms. Erik steps to him and kneels down, allowing Charles to lift the helmet off his head with steady hands. He holds his breath as the silence subsides, closing his eyes at the all-too familiar feeling of another consciousness touching his.

He was right to trust Charles (as always): there is no treachery, no debilitating attack, no screaming; no blame carefully hidden. He can feel Charles creep around the edges of his awareness, careful and even a bit scared, like he's treading on a mine field. Eventually Charles shows him a memory of a single profound thought: there are no images, nothing sensory at all, just a single vigorous thought, sharp like it could cut glass, blindingly bright: _HELP_. For a second Erik wonders why Charles is showing him this, why does he need help, but then the memory expands and recollection kicks in, and he realizes that the memory isn't Charles', but _his_ : it's him pleading for help, alone and scared and crushed. He sees his mother's eyes and the bending steel gate screams in agony and Shaw's pistol goes off and his hate explodes. He can still feel Charles in his head, his consciousness like tendrils around memories, but he's not touching anything, he just holds open something very deep, very hidden; something Erik didn't even know was there.

The way the coin digs into his palm and fingers feels so corporeal, like it's not a memory at all.

There are tears in his eyes and he pushes himself away from Charles and Charles is gone from his mind immediately, as if the helmet is back on his head. Erik doesn't look at him, he can't, so he gets back up on his feet, turns around and screams, and metal all around the room crashes into walls, falling apart and bending into wild shapes.

Charles watches him rage, arms lax on the armrests of his wheelchair (apparently made from something other than metal, as it doesn't suffer from Erik's rampage: smart, and expected) and his face is an empty mask. When Erik is finally out of breath and all metal is torn into pieces and lodged in the walls and he falls to his knees and just breathes, all out of screams and tears and rage and _regret,_ Charles finally speaks.

"That is what I saw," he says.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Charles blinks, and a ghost of a smile haunts his lips. "Would you have accepted my help even if you had known? Does it matter, Erik? Aren't we past what-ifs and could-have-beens?"

"Cut the rhetoric, Charles, why did you show me now if it doesn't matter?"

"Conclusion," Charles replies without missing a beat. "I have accepted my failure. You have chosen your path, and I respect your choice, even if it's something I don't agree with. Even when it broke my heart. What I find odd is how much _you_ falter—"

Erik feels Charles reach out for him and in panic and anger he lunges forward, ending up kneeled in front of Charles, hands on his shoulders and threatening. He doesn't want to show _that_ to Charles, doesn't want him to know how he sometimes wishes that he could get another chance; how he would do everything different just to get Charles back. Apologies don't mean a thing and Charles is right: they are way past what-ifs and could-have-beens, because Erik _did_ leave, _did_ kill Shaw and they both know that they want different things (or rather the very same thing, but their means to getting there is where the conflict lies), and _nothing_ could have changed that.

It's either Charles or the future of their kind, and he doesn't want to put people like him (people like Charles) in danger just because he is selfish and lonely and hurting and still in love. Charles knows it and has accepted it, so why can't he?

Then again, Charles was always the better man.

What Charles does not realize is that he was fighting a losing battle: Erik was always way beyond saving.

And no matter how much he entertains childish dreams of doing everything different, he knows that he would always kill Shaw with the coin, even if Charles felt it every single time; even if Charles stood by him and handed him the coin. It is effortless to think that he might let Shaw live if given the choice when he _knows_ that Shaw is gone for good, and he doesn't have to look at his smug face and see him grin and kill his mother over and over and over again, and vengeance and rage and burning hatred doesn't blur his senses and guide his hand.

And it breaks his heart because in the end he hated Shaw more than he loved Charles, and it is what he regrets the most. And Charles _knows_.

"Get _out_ of my head," Erik snarls.

Charles has the audacity to _smile_. "You asked me, remember?"

 _What did you see, Charles?_

"I'm sorry, Erik," he says then, voice reduced to a whisper, and he lifts his hand to touch Erik's cheek, "I looked deep."

Erik just pulls him closer by the shoulders, almost out of the chair and kisses him. It's desperate and hungry and he never wants to stop and let go because he knows that this is the last one. Charles just melts into the kiss and he knows it too, projecting an apology and a farewell straight into Erik's mind.

 _You know this won't change anything,_ he says.

"Of course," Erik admits against Charles' mouth, kisses him for the last time and with a rehearsed flick of his fingers summons the helmet to him (it lies on the other side of the room, thrown there by the tantrum he threw earlier). He slips it on, not hesitating even for a second, and something painful flits across Charles' face when he's cut off. Erik, however, finds freedom in the confines of his helmet for the first time, having considered it a necessity before: the needed barrier between him and Charles.

Now there is no guessing anymore.

He leaves the room and the building, calls for Azazel once he's outside and gets spirited away, holding on to the last thought Charles managed to project at him before the helmet cut him off, _despite everything; all of this, I still love you, and I know, Erik, my friend_.

He never takes off the helmet, ever.


End file.
